Wasn’t what? he asked himself. Wasn’t just getting a little bit freaked out by you? If that was her intention—to shock him, to freak out—she’d finally succeeded.
He thought about running after her, to prove to her that he wasn’t so easily weirded out.
But somehow, he couldn’t. He just stood there, watching her run down the street with her crazy-ass books.
Possessed? What the hell is that supposed to mean?
He turned, letting out a long sigh of disappointment and heading for the shuttle stop to take him home.
Chapter 3
Vicky struggled against the ropes binding her hands behind her back to no avail. The sadistic bastard who’d chloroformed her and brought her to this strange place in the middle of nowhere had tied the knots too tightly. There was barely enough room for her to even wiggle her hands about.
She heard footsteps outside the door, which swung open, light spilling into the room. A form was outlined in the door. “Ah, Ms. Knight, have you reconsidered your foolish position?”
The tape over her mouth kept her from responding, but she shot daggers out of her eyes at him. Brick Baldwin! She might have known he was behind her kidnapping—who else would be so vile, so purely evil? Wasn’t it bad enough he was trying to steal the election? Was there no low to which he wouldn’t stoop in his insane bid for power? She had to get away, she had to finally expose his evil to the light of day—too much depended on it. The fate of everyone in Louisiana was depending on her….
He flicked the light switch on, briefly blinding her as the room flooded with light. She glanced around quickly, looking for something, anything, that could help her to escape. She had to get away—she couldn’t remain his prisoner. The information she had was too crucial. The evidence had to reach the authorities in time. “Of course, how silly of me.” He chuckled, raising the hackles on the back of her neck. His eyes glinted malevolently as they swept up and down her bound form, his eyes lingering on her heaving breasts. “You can’t answer because your mouth is taped.” In three steps he was in front of her, and she could smell the sour whiskey and stale sweat. He always stank. He narrowed his eyes, then reached up and ripped the tape off her mouth, taking skin with it. She let out a howl of pain. “You’ll never get away with this, you scum.”
“On the contrary, Ms. Knight, I’ve already gotten away with it.” He smiled, showing his crooked teeth, yellowed from years of smoking. His breath was so foul she almost gagged. He reached down and cupped her left breast in his hand. The lust in his eyes was unmistakable.
Vicky spat defiantly in his face. “I’ll never tell you who my source is, you bastard.”
“Oh, you’ll tell me, Baldwin said with an evil leer, pulling a bottle out of his jacket pocket. “You see this? It’s sulfuric acid, Ms. Knight. Have you ever seen what sulfuric acid does to skin? It eats right through it, like a warm knife through soft butter.” He stroked her cheek. “Pretty as you are, it would be a shame to spoil your looks forever, now, wouldn’t it?” He uncorked the bottle and stepped back a few steps. “Now, tell me. Who in my organization is the traitor? All you have to do is tell me and you can walk away from all of this. If you don’t”—he smiled viciously at her—“you will become so ugly no one would look at you, except with pity in their eyes.”
Vicky started to scream….
“This is crap!”
Karen ripped the headphones off her head and threw them down on her desk in disgust. She stared at the blinking cursor. Maybe that agent was right and she really was a no-talent hack. She rubbed her eyes.
No, Philip believed in her. Philip has read my work and he says I’m good.
Philip Kaye.
The famous Philip Kaye.
My husband.
With a sigh, Karen highlighted everything she’d just written and then hit the Delete key. It all vanished in the blink of an eye.
She was having trouble concentrating, that was the problem. She sighed and stood up, stretching, her back cracking in a couple of places. She walked over to the window. From the distance the neon lights of Commercial Street glowed.
She knew why she couldn’t focus on the book.
Because she couldn’t forget that the first Mrs. Kaye had died in this house.
Why hadn’t Philip told her?
And why hadn’t Philip told her about the Hatch family? All that death in this very house! It freaked her out.
That’s why he didn’t tell you, she thought. He didn’t want to frighten you. He’ll be angry with Mrs. Winn for spilling the beans before he had a chance to let her in, gently, gradually…
In the two days since Alice Winn had told her about all the death in the house, Karen hadn’t been able to focus on anything. She had hoped by now that the place would feel like home to her. But it didn’t. Her boxes might be up in the attic, her clothes might be hanging in the closet, but the place was not home to her.
She couldn’t stop thinking about the Hatches, their grisly bodies strewn across the floor downstairs, blood on the walls. Lettie Hatch took a butcher knife, and with it took her father’s life. To put an end to all her strife, she used it then on her father’s wife.
Somehow, even worse was thinking about Ivy Kaye. Alice Winn didn’t know any details about Karen’s predecessor’s suicide—she’d been hired afterward. All she knew was gossip she’d heard around town, and she refused to spread gossip, she said. Karen had just smiled wryly, remembering how quickly she’d told her about Lettie Hatch.
Karen certainly couldn’t talk to Jessie about it. In fact, she couldn’t talk to Jessie about anything. Every time she tried to make even the slightest conversation with the girl, all Jessie would do was stare at her with her big brown eyes and shrug. Outside of her schoolwork, all Jessie seemed to do was write in that notebook of hers. Her fingers seemed to be permanently stained with blue ink.
“Do you want to be a writer?” Karen asked her that afternoon at lunch, hoping to finally draw something—anything—out of her stepdaughter.
But there was only a shrug.
“You know that I’m a writer, too,” Karen said, still trying. “I’m writing a novel.”
Nothing this time. No response of any kind. She might as well have been talking to her plate. Jessie finished eating her sandwich, picked up her notebook, and headed back up to her room. The door slammed behind her.
It’s not healthy to stay cooped up in the house all the time, Karen thought. Doesn’t she have any friends? Isn’t she interested in boys? Isn’t she interested in anything at all?
And if that wasn’t enough, Philip hadn’t called all day. She’d tried his cell phone a few times, always getting his voice mail. She tried to keep her voice light, as if there weren’t anything wrong—Philip doesn’t like needy women, she kept reminding herself, he’s said that many times. She even left messages for him at the hotels he’d been staying at—and he still hadn’t called.
Who have I married? What have I gotten myself into here?
But she stopped that line of thought dead in its tracks—that would be admitting her mother was right, that they should have waited to get married, that Karen was making a mistake rushing into this marriage.
Even if he was Philip Kaye.
Her hero.
Her husband.
She’d rather die than admit her mother was right.
After she’d finished drinking her tea, she’d gone straight to the computer and searched the Internet for information about the Hatch murders. What she’d found had chilled her. There was a site called lettiehatchet.net